Dog Days
by ProspektsMarch161
Summary: Ziva's in Israel, framed for the murder of Michael Rivkin. All she has is her partner to prove her innocent and find who really killed him and why...TIVA
1. Rivkin

**Hi))**

**new one since Protection Detail's on semi-permanent hiatus :)**

**It's named after Florence and the Machine's song Dog Days, only because I was listening to it when i started writing :)**

**---**

**Summary: Ziva's on the run after she has been framed for murdering Michael Rivkin, and Tony's with her in Israel, trying to find evidence prove her innocent, and find who framed her.**

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"Ready?" She tries to keep her voice down as she pulls the black fabric down over her head.

"Ready as I'll ever be." His voice isn't quite as strong as hers, mainly because what they are about to try and do isn't something he has particular experience in. "Who's driving?" The quivers in the words echo round the metal garage.

"You are. I do not want to get swished by you if I am at the front"

He twists his mouth into a faux-pout, just visible through his balaclava. "_Squished, _Ziva"

"Whatever. Miri has left the van at the end of the street, and the name of a local grocer is printed on the side. We shouldn't be spotted by anyone with brain power beyond yours"

He doesn't take the bait. "And the bike?"

"We ditch it."

"Is someone picking it up?"

"No, Miri will burn it up"

He looks incredulously at his partner.

"That's a Ducati 900SS silver, Ziva! I had a buddy back in D.C. who sold his house for one of these and you're gonna burn it up?!"

She gives him a last patronising smirk before pulling on the helmet, and he follows suit, breathing deeply as he hoists his leg over the bike and climbs onto the front with the handles just in reach of his hands.

The garage doors open almost silently, and the rush of cold Israeli night air that fills his lungs sets his heart pounding. She climbs on the back, and as he feels her arms slide around his waist and lock at his stomach, his mind spins and his muscles tighten.

He hears her breath quicken as he starts the engine and the bike roars into the darkness.

888

He switches the glaring headlights off, and the back-street becomes nothing but a black hollow.

They drop the bike off, and as they pull off their helmets, he casts one last appreciative look at the grey shimmer.

"I hate wasting cool things." He thinks aloud.

They've walked a fair way from where they stopped now, and they sit, backs to the brick wall with legs splayed in front of them, and try to pass the time and the tension. Her deep breaths are audible, even through the balaclava, which makes both their minds twist into mission-mode.

"We should take off the head-scarves. We will look more like normal people" She pulls hers off, and for a moment his mind is preoccupied by the cascade of dark curls she's released.

"Tony?"

Much to his dismay, he's jolted back into reality by the ominous sound of footsteps they've been waiting for. She jumps up with surprising speed and grabs his hand to pull him up with her. They both prick her ears, listening for a specific distance or person.

She's done it before.

"He is in the next street. If we get him now he cannot raise the alarm before we get him into the van" She concludes, and they jog slowly and soundlessly through the alleyways towards the sound.

They make out the figure of a man in the darkness. He's on a cellphone the size of a melon, and engaged in a deep Hebrew conversation. A small grin pokes through Ziva's nerves as she recognises the swear words of her language.

"....Now." They rush forward. As he grabs his arms, she grabs his phone, hangs it up, and shoves a wad of torn up linen into his mouth.

They are eerily silent against his pushes and muffled shouts, as they spot the black van less than 30 yards away from them. Ziva magically produces an electronic key from her jacket and Tony looks round anxiously when the van blips and unlocks. He leaves the man to his partner's devices for a moment and slides the door open, watching her bundle the now tied Israeli into the cavity.

888

They change into clothes Miri had brought to the safe house earlier before they deal with the disgruntled and unwilling almost-suspect they have concealed in the basement of the small house.

Ziva sits at a wooden desk, interrogation-style, and their suspect shifts uneasily opposite, a surly snarl on his face. Her partner paces behind her in absence of the one-way mirror.

"What is your name?" She speaks in English.

He doesn't reply but sinks further into his seat.

"You will tell us, the easy way or the hard way, and it is probably in your best interest that it is done the easy way."

Tony doesn't doubt that she has a hard way to do it.

"Maani."

"Maani who?"

No answer.

"As I said Maani, there is a hard way to do this."

"Maani Rivkin"

Her face turns ghost white for a few seconds, and she doesn't move.

"My name is interesting to you?" Maani seems encouraged by his interrogator's show of shock.

Her anxiety turns to anger. "It is not _your business _what your name means to me!"

DiNozzo thinks about intervening, but 3 years of pranks and jokes taught him that Ziva is best not interrupted.

She relaxes again, her skin darkens slightly again, and so do her eyes.

"Are you in any way associated with Michael Rivkin?"

He shrugs.

"He is my brother, but I have not seen him in three decades."

"You are lying"

"I am not!"

"You _are_ lying, Mister Rivkin, and we have ways of getting the truth that would send your mind spinning."

It's the suspect's turn to go white, but he ploughs on and leans forward on the desk.

"Why don't you tell me what _your _name is, pretty girl?"

Tony's eyes involuntarily narrow, but he grins when she delivers a swift kick to where it hurts most.

"You do not need to know my name"

"Perhaps you did not need to know mine?"

She ignores the question.

"Tell me what is your association with Michael Rivkin. I will make you if needs be, so do not withhold."

He shifts again.

"We had...business deals. He offered me money –"

"For what?"

"I had..information..."

He wipes the sweat from his forehead and looks at the ceiling.

"Tell me, Maani, because either way you will"

"I do not know. Honestly. I was passed information by an informant from Mossad, and Michael wanted it. I wouldn't give it to him, so he gave me money instead"

Her face drops into a confused frown.

"It is in my knowledge that Michael Rivkin works for Mossad. If he wanted information, he could have got it straight from the source. His old partner's father is the deputy director"

"And how would you know that?"

She slightly struggles with his backchat.

"Because...I used to know her."

He seems satisfied with her answer, which is ironic, Tony thinks, because she's supposed to be the one asking the questions.

Maani seems tired, and Ziva senses that he wants to go home.

So does she.

"Look, I do not know exactly what the information was. I know Michael was delivering a package somewhere. I do not know his intentions, I do not know where he was going, I do not know who he is delivering it to, but I do know how to contact him. Talk to Michael, because he is the only one who knows what is going on."

He leans right back into the chair and draws in air through his nose, then notices that his interrogator has her head in her hands.

"What?"

Tony speaks for her. "Michael is dead"

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**Hope you liked! new chapter up soon))**

**Lottie xx**


	2. Anything

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS. At all. Nada.**

**Hi))**

**it's not often I update so quickly, but my family are out except my brother who has his geeky friend round. So I wrote another chapter. :)**

**Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for all the favourite and story alert additions! I think sometimes ppl take them for granted...**

**anyways, enjoy. I promise more tiva in later chapters ;)**

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McGee hates Fridays. Like when the elf lord charges his magical powers - It's as if all the coffee Gibbs has consumed during the week has risen up to form a super-twitchy-angry Gibbs.

That's combined with the fact that two of his agents have gone missing.

Thankfully he's been spending most of his time down in Abby's Lab, listening to goth music and her promises that Tony and Ziva haven't been caught by Mossad yet. "They're not caught yet, Gibbs. I mean Tony's like...what, macho man? And Ziva's ninja skills probably rival all the other Mossad people's". You can tell Gibbs isn't satisfied, but he puts on a despairing grin and promises her he'll find them.

McGee takes a swig of his own sugar-tastic energy drink, mirrored by Gibbs' coffee.

"McGee?! Any luck with the cellphone trace?"

He sighs. He would have had some luck, but there is one key to a cellphone trace, and he doesn't have it.

"I would have done, but neither Tony nor Ziva took their cells wherever they went."

Gibbs doesn't appreciate patronising tones, and turns to McGee with a glare that could melt steel.

"But...I could..." He's not really sure what he can do.

"You go down to Abby. Help her look. Make lists of where they might have gone. Look at what they took. I don't know, McGee! Just do _something_ to help us find them!"

He watches the younger agent scurry off and sits down in his chair, exasperated.

888

"Abby? ABBY?!"

She's on the opposite side of the glass, shooting slugs from a Glock pistol that looks remarkably like Ziva's.

"What are you doing?"

She pulls the helmet off, picks up the shot slugs, and opens the door, Star-Trek style.

"Getting into the mindset, McGee."

"Isn't that Ziva's gun?"

She's shocked.

"McGee! You think a super-Mossad-agent would forget her gun whilst on the run from the bad guys?"

_Uh oh, too late, _he thinks, as Abby has switched into movie-mode, narrowing her eyes and facing the plasma.

"All on her own..."

"Tony's with her"

"No idea who's chasing her..."

"She knows it's Mossad"

"Shh, McGee! Gibbs doesn't know. Anyway, as I was saying, No way to defend herself..."

"Abby, you just said, she's got her gun! It's not that bad!"

Abby twirls to face him, and it seems as if the two huge pictures of Tony and Ziva she's had on the plasma for the past 2 weeks are backing her up.

"NOT THAT BAD?! MCGEE! How can you say that?!" He doesn't get a chance to answer before she starts shoving him towards the door.

"You don't come back in until you do realise how BAD this IS!"

Despite weird, disparaging and patronising looks from fellow agents passing by the lab, McGee bangs on the glass and presses his face up against it, which normally sends her into spirals of laughter.

"Abby I'm sorry!" It's no use. She's turned her music up full volume, and her eyes stay glued to the computer as he shouts for forgiveness.

"No McGee! If you don't think it's that bad, that means you're not trying hard enough to find them. When you find something, you can come back in."

Trouble is, he's exiled from everywhere that could help him. Except...

888

He's only ever been to Tony's house once – Abby insisted that they have his birthday party there instead of her house for once – as she put it, "You guys eat too much food". He would have made it a revenge mission for when the senior agent almost broke his typewriter, but, try as she might, Joe the Janitor had turned down Abby's invite, so there would be no one to fix anything of Tony's he broke. Carnage, that party was.

It hasn't changed since then.

Still the old, second-hand mahogany furniture, and in the living room the God-send that Tony knows as his child, the huge wall-mounted flatscreen LCD television, and the array of DVD players and dusty CD players and MP3 players and Blue-ray players stacked below it. It's high-tech heaven. The sofa opposite is well-worn, covered in throws and pillows, popcorn and chinese-food stains below it.

Everywhere are littered picture frames, full of pictures of him, Ziva, McGee, Abby, and one brilliantly grumpy one of Gibbs that Abby took and insisted everyone have a copy of. Memories of before "The Split", as they call it, are nostalgic and McGee's mind blocks out the sad memory.

His refrigerator door is covered in bits of paper with women's numbers and names, and a distinctive red X through most of them makes McGee smile. There's his number, Gibbs' number, Abby's number, and a blank space. Probably where Jenny's number was.

There's something else pinned on with a magnet shaped like a gun – it's a photo, with 2 phone numbers and a name written on with Tippex. As he gets closer he's surprised to find it's a photo of Ziva in a maroon swishy dress, the one she wore to the last marine ball. She's smiling at the camera – a rare occasion – and she looks beautiful, in a Tony-style way.

He's not surprised Tony has it on his fridge.

There's a Chinese takeout menu, an Indian takeout menu, Luigi's Pizza takeout menu. They've all had the same treatment – on each one most of the options either have "Me" or "Ziva" written in red biro next to them. His inner socialiser is miffed that he's not on there, but he's relieved as his mind is finally given an answer as to what his co-workers actually do on nights when they leave together.

He decides there's nothing here that would tell him anything except that Tony went with Ziva, and he knows that.

888

Gibbs is used to Mad-Abby.

"Gibbs?! Sorry, McGee's been banned from my lab for the moment. What...do you need?"

"I –"

"Wait...you came down? And I have nothing? What's happened, Gibbs? I must be losing my touch..."

He rolls his eyes.

"Abby, you have nothing?"

"No," she admits, "I don't"

"Did either Tony or Ziva say anything to you before they left?"

She shifts for a moment again, and keeps her gaze averted from Gibbs.

"No."

"Abby?"

She keeps her gaze away from him, turning to face the pictures of her heroes on the screen.

"Well..."

"Abby! We need to know. _I _need to know. You know anything at all about where Tony and Ziva went?"

Abby can tell he's angry, because she knows Gibbs hates being out of control, which is an understatement for his situation right about now.

"Whoa, Gibbs. I just...Tony might have mentioned something to me before he left"

He's desperate for more information, and Abby feels like the blue eyes are boring into her skull. She's about to come up with something funny about him being able to read her mind, but the atmosphere in her lab at the moment isn't exactly comic and she thinks it would be best not to disturb it any further, so she stays silent.

"What, Abby? What was it about? Where they were going? Why they were running? Who they were running from? I don't care, just _tell _me"

"Tony said I shouldn't tell you. He called me a few days ago, and he sounded worried. He said I shouldn't tell you, because Vance would find out and that would blow everything that they'd been doing"

"Whatever, Abby! He won't find out! What did Tony tell you?"

"She's on the run from Mossad. Someone framed her for some Mossad agent's murder, and they're looking for who actually did it and why."

Gibbs rolls his eyes and starts to storm his way out of the lab.

"You could have told me that two days ago"

It's only then she realises that she doesn't have a caf-pow.

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**Hope you liked! Will update pretty soon :)**

**The button calls...**

**Lotts xx**


	3. Safe

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS. sigh.....**

**Hi, another chapter :)**

**This whole one-a-day thing is to make up for when I go away for a week - won't be able to post anything then!**

**Enjoy x**

* * *

Her body tenses as she hears the door open and shut.

It could be anyone. Tony. The figment of her imagination who has taken him hostage. Miri, wanting instructions, checking if she was okay. It could be _Gibbs. _

Tony'd gone to drop off their informant in whatever hole he lived in. She'd volunteered first and taken the keys to the van, but he had snatched them back and insisted he do it. Or as he put it, "You've been through a lot, sweetcheeks. I'll handle this." Despite his patronising tone, the name made undercover memories flash through her mind and she was pretty sure she was still grinning after he left.

"I chucked him out."

Ziva is snapped out of anxiety as a familiar man with a rugged build and green eyes enters her sight, and she relaxes back into the pillows at the sound of his voice, the laptop on her lap sinking as she breathes a sigh of relief.

"Oh, by the way, what was on that bit of paper?"

"The one I asked you to give him?"

He rolls his eyes. "No, that big piece of paper with all the presidents' signatures on it." She puts on her usual facade of being unimpressed with his sarcasm, but she can only just hide the smile. "_Yes, _that one"

"It was just to whale the deal."

"_Seal_, Ziva. _Seal _the deal. I guessed that, but what did you actually write?"

"None of your business."

"Fine." Topic dropped.

Miri has planned the whole hiding-from-Mossad thing well, but with one flaw: the bedroom Ziva is sitting in is the only bedroom, and the bed she is sitting on is the only bed.

"I am sleeping on the floor, yes? You can have the bed to yourself if y–"

Her words trail off as her partner takes off his shirt, and she smites the failure of her Mossad concentration training. Her head involuntarily tilts slightly as she takes in what she's seeing.

"If I what?" He turns round and beams out a DiNozzo grin. "Oh. Heh. Like what you see, Ziva?" She goes bright red which pleases him even more, and for a second she's lost in the moment and in his smile, staying silent.

"Perhaps I am thinking of improvements?" She tries to snap back.

"Not easy, is it?" He grins again, but she doesn't notice because her eyes are still on his six-pack.

_Concentrate! _Finally snapping out of her reverie, Ziva rolls her eyes, her cheeks go back to their normal colour, and she decides to change the subject.

Feelings are too much to deal with right now.

"I have...uh...come up with something on Michael Rivkin"

Thankfully he slips on a huge Ohio state t-shirt, matching the joggers she uses as pyjamas – he'd given them to her for a birthday present a while ago, which she had returned with a sly grin and the question of whether he wanted anything in return. Jogger logo matches T-shirt logo as he slides onto the end of the bed and stares at the ceiling.

"What has our honorary-Probie-Internet-Ninja found?"

"Michael Rivkin," She starts, missing the feeling of getting up and pointing at the plasma for Gibbs, "is an ex-Mossad agent. He served as an officer for five years, has no outstanding criminal record, and lives in–" Cut off, not for the first time this evening, her eyes widen as the laptop screen fills with alarm bells and warnings. She recognises FBI, CIA, MI5, NCIS, and a whole lot of other abbreviations from all over the planet.

"Tony, you need to come and look at this."

Tony's still looking at the ceiling and whistling the tune of Mission Impossible, and he doesn't turn his head as he stops.

"I'm not the McGoo, Ziva. I can't fix your computer problems"

A swift kick to his leg shows him the error of his ways.

"Why? What's up with Mikey's file?" Tony asks, as he scoots up to sit beside his partner.

She can feel his breath on her face, so she takes a deep breath in and scowls to quell the temptation.

"What is _up, _DiNozzo, is that he is on the watchlist of every credible intelligence service in the northern hemisphere."

"What?!" He exclaims, glancing away from the glow surrounding his partner's face and towards the screen he is supposed to be looking at.

"FBI. CIA. NCIS. MI5. Mossad, even!"

"Bad guy, then. What's he in for?"

Her eyes scroll down the page and come close to popping out.

"Suspected weapons dealer. Wanted in 97 countries for questioning about – suspected arms dealing."

He raises his eyebrows. "Looks like we found our Mikey's bad point, then"

"Not necessarily. Suspected doesn't mean he is."

"Ninety-seven countries, Ziva! That's almost half the freaking planet! It's gotta mean something."

She closes the laptop and slides it onto the bedside table, much to her partner's confusion.

"Hey, what was that for? Those pop-ups might have given us something on this guy"

"Do not forget, my little hairy butt, that our internet connection relies on next door's unsecured internet connection. Since most people who are not on the run from two armed federal agencies go to sleep at what you consider to be normal times and turn off their connection then, I am _assuming _that they have turned theirs off."

888

His previous experience of food-with-Ziva has only been French, Italian, or some ultra-complicated Middle Eastern food at her apartment, or pizza, Chinese or Indian takeout at his. Frozen Israeli insta-meals with labels that he can't read are a new experience, and he relishes the opportunity for new teasing.

"Hey, what does _this _bit say?" He points to a Hebrew phrase on the cardboard cover as they listen to the microwave buzz.

She snatches it out of his hands and puts on a perfect-wife voice. "It says: 'Warning: irritating men who cannot read Hebrew and annoy their partners by asking for translations will be subject to paperclip attacks'"

He snatches it back. "Oh, ha ha. And can't read Hebrew? You just watch." He clears his throat. "Okay...this first line... 'Heat for five minutes in microwave'...next line is 'Leave to cool for approximately thirty seconds'" and he continues, delighting in her stunned expression.

"Tony – I – didn't realise –"

He smiles in delight at making her uncomfortable, and for a moment they stay looking into the others' eyes. He sees loyalty in the hazel of hers, and he gets lost in his and her thoughts for one wonderful moment, so lost that he finds himself leaning in towards her...

_Bing._

He leans back again and they let out a synonymous breath of relief. She opens the door and pulls out the dish without looking him in the eye again, and they eat in silence, listening to the gobbledegook that is Israel's radio stations at 1:00am. They finish and she clears the plastic dishes into the sink before heading back into the bedroom to find him in a sleeping bag on the floor, reading some tragic American car magazine.

"Tony, I will sleep on the floor. You haven't even got a mattress."

He puts down the magazine and points to the double bed looming next to him.

"It's yours, sweetcheeks. Stressed backs need comforting mattresses." His reply reminds her of a husband talking to his stressed out wife.

_What's the difference between that and now?_, she thinks, _only that we're not married. If only..._

"Are you getting in then? I don't want to be subjected to crazy-tired-assassin tomorrow."

She sweeps the duvet into a fold, and after the stress of the past day it is one of the most inviting things she has ever seen. Second only to that one time in a dark closet....

She slides into the middle of the bed: so far in that he doesn't notice she's watching him, but close enough to the edge that she can see him. Make sure he's there – it's a sense of security, about the only one she's felt in the last 2 weeks.

"Don't get too close to the edge."

She curses in Hebrew under her breath as she realises that her camouflage failed.

"I won't fall on you in the night, DiNozzo. You can only dream." She purrs, awaiting his response.

"Maybe it's a good thing? Hell, the fall'll probably kill you!"

* * *

**Anyone know what movie that's from?**

**Review! Review! Review!!!**

**Lotts xx**


	4. Leon

**Disclaimer: I don't own CBS, NCIS, Gibbs, Vance, Tony, Ziva, McGee, Abby, Jimmy, Ducky, Joe the Janitor......and it goes on.**

**Warning: There is a bad word in this chapter, the Ba-word, so sorry if that offends anyone.**

**This isn't the most interesting chapter, it's sort of a filler-in and doesn't have any Tiva, but it will get more interesting, I promise!**

**Anyway, sorry if there's any continuity errors or anything, and c****an you spot the possible spoiler for what's going to happen (technically what happened) in Protection Detail?**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

"Ah, Director Vance."

"Eli."

He sits back in his chair. This is going to be a long phone call.

"Have you any information on the howabouts of my daughter?"

Vance comes close to laughing, but stops as he finds that even he doesn't have the guts to correct the Deputy Director of Mossad's mistaken idioms.

"Her _whereabouts –_" he braces himself for the accusation of impoliteness, "well, Eli, she's at her apartment here in D.C., being looked after by one of our agents."

Eli doesn't take more than a millisecond to guess who. "Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo?"

"Yes. It became apparent after one of our recent cases that someone was targeting her, so we put Officer David under protection detail at her home."

"I see. That of course is no business of mine, but clearly you have not kept a good enough eye on her."

Vance is surprised by the allegation. The worst he had thought could transpire between them was that NCIS had almost let her get blown up at a crime scene before putting her under protection detail.

"I – What do you mean?"

Across the Atlantic and not so far away from his daughter as he thinks, Eli David lets out a sigh that crackles through the phone.

"Two weeks ago at approximately 1:00am, Leon, Ziva was not in Washington. She was in a Jerusalem suburb, involved in the brutal murder of one of my best officers working in the city."

"That's impossible, Eli. I know for a fact–"

"–you _do not _know_, _Leon! I have _her_ DNA all over the gun that was used! The gun that was registered in _her_ name! I have witnesses that _confirm_ she was there!"

He may be the Deputy Director of a federal agency, but he's still a father, and his own flat-out admittance that his daughter is a murderer is enough to reduce him down enough that he slams his fist on the hardwood desk, and a tear rolls down his cheek.

"I know it was Ziva, Leon. Do not feed me this rubbish about you knowing where she was. What I want to know is, where is she _now?!_"

"I...don't know."

Vance can't stand admitting he's wrong, but he knows how the man on the other end of the phone feels. Children are children – whether you're a professional gardener or a federal agent, you don't like putting them in other peoples' hands, and when you do you start automatically feeling guilty for anything that happens to them. Neither of his own children had ever had such atrocities happen to them in their lives so he's never felt the cloud of guilt that he imagined would hang round someone like Eli David. One child blown up at the age of 15, one child turned spy and now dead, and one child apparently a murderer and on the run with whoever was supposed to be looking after her. How he could live with himself and send his daughter to live 3000 miles over an ocean, Vance didn't know.

"I'm sorry, Eli."

In Tel Aviv, Eli has never liked other people listening in to his conversations, particularly private ones, and he had shooed his nosy secretary out of his office before he even dialled the number, but he still can't help feeling that someone else knows what he's about to say. What he's about to _admit._

"Listen. I do not believe she did it, Leon. I know for a fact that she has the capacity to kill someone, and maybe all the evidence is currently pointing to her, but she is my daughter and she is not a murderer." He changes his tone to business-like. "As for her running away, I have had to do my duty and send out a search team. If we find Officer David and Agent DiNozzo before she has been proven innocent , they will be taken into custody. I am already in, how do you say, bad stead for the situation surrounding my late son. I don't want my reputation ruined by a false allegation against my daughter. She's _not _a murderer."

Leon sighs. "Sometimes a person isn't all they seem. Sometime you think you know someone, but you don't have a clue what they're really all about"

"I suppose."

His face twists into a stiff snarl as the door handle Gibbs strides into the room. _Uninvited as usual_, he thinks.

"DiNozzo and David are missing, Leon. They're not answering their cells and I sent McGee to both their apartments – they're not there."

Vance sighs loud enough for Gibbs to hear.

"Sorry, Eli. Something's come up, I will have to phone you back."

"Very well, Vance, but do not bother to call until you have something new."

He puts the phone down calmly and shifts his chair closer to the desk, so he can rest his elbows on the wood and look up at Gibbs. "Agent Gibbs, why did I have to wait for the Deputy Director of Mossad to tell me this before you did?"

Gibbs ignores the question and faces his boss.

"Apparently, Ziva's been framed for some Mossad Officer's murder."

"From what I hear, Gibbs, all evidence points to her having done it."

A frown crosses Gibbs' face.

"She's not a murderer, Leon. Not of her allies, at least."

"Who said everyone at Mossad was her ally?"

"Not a murderer of people she respects. If she did, it was for a good reason."

"And how do you know this, Gibbs?"

Somehow he doesn't think _"Because I watched her shoot her bastard of a brother" _is the kind of reply Vance would appreciate.

"I just know."

"That's not good enough for me, Gibbs. Until anything more comes through from Mossad, I'm going to assume that Officer David is guilty. What I want to know is why you've felt the need to run an investigation behind my back for the last 2 weeks."

He gets up from his chair and walks towards a map of D.C. on his personal plasma screen. He clicks the clicker and a red warning sign comes up on the plasma: CALL TRACED FROM FORENSICS LABORATORY 3 – APPROX. 26 HOURS AGO – FAILED

"Call trace," he confirms, "2 days ago from Miss Sciuto's lab. Number: 32549 – 5744. I've got that same number registered in agent contact details for Officer David. Why the _hell _didn't you read me into this, Gibbs? Two of our agents missing, you should have informed me as soon as you knew their intention"

"I figured you'd rather hear it from David's father."

"Gibbs, from now on I want heads up on anything that you find out about the whereabouts of DiNozzo and David. You hear anything, you tell me first, and only me."

"You do the same for me, Director."

* * *

**Hope you liked! Please review :)**

**Lotts xx**


	5. Arms

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, or any of the movies referenced in this. If I did, I would be a billionaire, but that doesn't mean I would stop writing!**

**Hi))**

**This chapter's the longest I've written, which is ironic because I had the most writer's block with the start. I only got 2 reviews for the last chapter (which was admittedly not that interesting), but most hits ever, so to everyone who reads but doesn't review, thankyou to you too :)**

**The end is a treat for us Tiva fans, especially BritishNinjaChick who I hope is back from holiday soon, because she hasn't read past chapter one!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The techno music comes to an abrupt halt as Abby picks up her phone.

"Abs?"

"TONY!!" She switches to a strangely conspicuous whisper. "Oh my god, how's Ziva? Where are you? Hold on a second, I'll tell _you._"

DiNozzo hears clicking and computer noises through the receiver, and savours the opportunity to get back to his old normality for a moment.

"Hey, Abs, I've just spent the last day going through some guy's garbage. How's life without the two most charismatic agents at NCIS? How are Gibbs and the Probalicious doing?"

Since the topic of has she/had she not told Gibbs isn't something she hoped to come up, she ignores the question. "4 Ya'akov Tsur, a suburb of Jerusalem that is unusually known because of small streets named after the countries of central America."

"Okay, Abs, I didn't need to know that. I want you to run a search for Michael Rivkin."

More keyboard tapping. "What am I looking for?"

"Anything. All we know is that he used to be a Mossad agent."

"I'm running it now."

The break in serious conversation lets Abby revert to her original question. "How's Ziva feeling?"

"She's okay. Bit...uh...upset when the whole framed-for-Rivkin's-death came up. But yeah, she's – she's good."

"Keeping an eye on her, are you, DiNozzo?"

He's sitting at a chipboard desk, laptop in front of him, listening to the sound of rushing water coming from the bathroom. He isn't keeping an eye on her right now, he thinks. "Uh, yeah, sure Abs."

Much as she wants to, her opportunity to enquire further is cut short as warning signs flash on her screen, and a text-stricken CIA file pops up. "Whoa. Born in Israel, lived in South America up until 2003, when he moved to Israel and joined Mossad. But seriously, this guy practically did the crime-tour of Latino country. He was questioned about a suspected murder in Bolivia in 1994 at the age of 24 and was released without charge. He was questioned about a shooting in Bogota in 1995 and was given a caution. He later served 5 years in a Colombian prison for weapons smuggling offences from 1997 to 2002, and before his controversially short prison sentence was considered –" she adds theatrically, "– a _notoriously evasive_ weapons dealer in the 1990s. This comes from evidence gathered by undercover intelligence services which showed him, despite being known worldwide, to have easily evaded both capture and prison. That is of course, until he got busted."

He tries to understand this huge piece of information, but the entire story seems a bit off.

"What I don't get is why Mossad would hire someone who was known as the freakin' top guy of weapons dealing?"

"I don't know, but it's weird, cos I'm reading his report from Mossad, and it like _radiates _praise. The director himself said he was 'loyal and hardworking, taking a personal responsibility with all his work'. Sounds like a stand-up guy."

"Doesn't sound too legit to me, Abs. I'll get Zee-vah to press some buttons with her ex-Mossad buddies."

Abby smirks knowingly. "Not just with them, DiNozzo..."

"Huh?" He sounds uncertain, but he knows exactly what she's talking about.

"Don't worry. I won't tell her."

"Wh...what?" _Play the fool, play the fool..._

"Forget it, Tony, and tell the crazy ninja I said good luck with proving she's innocent. And I haven't told anyone what you said."

"_Good, _Abby."

"......except I told Gibbs."

He sighs and runs a hand through his short hair. When he had told her, the back of his mind still said: _She'll tell him, Tony. She tells him everything. _He knew Abby would tell him at some point, so he lets it go. "That's OK, Abs. Nothing stays a secret forever. I'll call back if anything happens."

He hangs up.

888

"Tony?"

"What?"

"I need you to pass my shirt through the bathroom door"

He gets up and walks towards the open overnight-bag. "I want you to know you interrupted a very promising Rubix cube marathon."

When he sees the underwear on the top of her bag, he all but has to prise his eyes away, and deciding he couldn't find a shirt in it in less than 10 minutes, automatically swerves and goes for his carrier instead, picking up the Ohio state t-shirt he was wearing the night before. He paces to the bathroom and opens the door a fraction. The smell of strawberries fills his mind, _her _smell, and so does the sight of–

He steps back behind the door.

"Uhh..."

As he hands the cotton through the gap, a low voice comes back at him.

"Tony, this is not my shirt."

"Oh, I guess I must have...picked up mine instead."

She smiles. "You're really that stupid?"

"Listen, sweetcheeks. You're gonna have to come out of there sometime, and whether or not you have a shirt on when you do is up to me."

He may not be able to see it, but the Israeli goes bright red. "Yes, you _really _do wield that much power over me" she quips sarcastically, snatching the shirt out of his hands and pulling it down over her wet hair. "What did Abby say about Michael Rivkin?"

"Dodgy guy," the response comes from far behind the other side of the door. "Done lots of time in South American countries, served 5 years in a Colombian prison for weapons offences. Apparently known as a big arms dealer sometime in the 1990s."

She emerges from the bathroom in shorts and his huge t-shirt drowning her curves, but as he swivels round on the chair he still thinks she looks beautiful, with her hair making drip-marks on the back of the shirt. "I'm not surprised. Mossad is not picky with outside offenders, and his history would prove he had a good understanding of criminal psychology. He would have seemed sliced out for a job investigating criminals."

"_Cut_ out."

"Whatever. All I am saying is it is not surprising Mossad hired him."

"Are you hinting at something, Zee-vah?" He grins at his partner, propping his feet up on the edge of the bed. "Is there some secret criminal past you have yet to reveal?"

She whorls to face him with a resentful glare before dropping onto the sofa, and he realises the lack of tact in what he's just said, the comic atmosphere shattering. "I'm sorry Ziva. I didn't mean –"

"It is okay, Tony. You were not trying to be tactless."

He smiles back and turns in the chair, pulling up the attachment on Abby's email.

"Is that the file on Rivkin?" She sweeps herself up off the couch and leans over his shoulder to look at the screen, reminiscent of bullpen days.

"Yeah..." The heat of her minty breath on his neck is so distracting that for a second he forgets what he's looking at. "So...yeah, um...oh, I'll save it. I guess we can look at it tomorrow. No petrifying interrogations planned for then?"

"No."

"Good, cause you know sometimes they're not the easiest thing to do in a foreign country where you're on the run. Well, foreign country for me. This must be like home for you."

She shrugs as she lies flat on the bad, contemplating their situation. "It does not feel like home. Washington is my home."

"But you've lived here longer than anywhere else."

"That does not make it home. Home is where all my friends are. Home is where I live, not where I come from. For example, my room at my father's house is empty, but the room at...well, _your _apartment feels like home"

The laptop shuts down and he starts pulling out the sleeping bag. "My place?"

"Yes. You have your ragged sofa with a million blankets, the ridiculously huge television, your entire collection of DVDs – The Sundance kid, Sahara, A few good men –"

"Sounds like you know my place better than yours." He smiles dreamily. "It's like we're..." _Living together? Together in general? _He doesn't know, so he doesn't finish. He can only dream. "Oh. This sleeping bag's rip-tastic." He proves, pulling fluff out of the huge tear down the middle. "Last time I ever pay less than fifty dollars for a sleeping bag!"

He turns and notices she's sitting up on one side of the bed, legs under the covers.

"Well, I am not taking up that much space." It's an invite in itself, and he drops the sleeping back and slides under on the opposite side as she does on her side. It's perfectly warm, and they both automatically shift closer to the middle as he turns the light out.

They're left with nothing but the calming silence of Jerusalem suburb traffic at 11:56pm, and as he listens to his partner's slow breathing he decides he can't miss the chance. He shifts even closer to her and carefully wraps his biceps round her waist.

He can hear her breaths quicken then slow down again, and while he's got his face sunken in the strawberry smell of her hair, he wonders how long it can go on like this without going any further.

* * *

**Hope you liked! Just the start of the Tiva....**

**review! review! revieeeewww! **

**Lotts xx**


	6. Hints

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, CBS, any of the characters, the actual NCIS, or Mossad.**

**Hi)**

**Sorry it's been so long. I went to france on holiday for a weekend and then stuff just sort of happened (including Religious Studies GCSE revision). Not much time to write :( **

**Anyways, this is the longest chapter so far, but I think the end might be a bit OOC so sorry about that!**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

"Abs."

"Gibbs?! You brought me a caf-pow! That's not why you're here."

He frowns. "No, it's not. Have you got anything more?"

"Tony called." She doesn't move her eyes off the screen, and wonders if Tony wanted her to keep the rest secret. "He told me the name of the agent whose murder Ziva was framed for. Michael Rivkin, dodgy past, evasive arms dealer in South America in the 90s. Unfortunately, the McGees at Mossad are keeping his personal record under shades, so I can't see anything on why they hired such a slimy guy."

"He had something else to offer. Guys like these have contacts in arms dealing operations. Mossad would've found that useful."

Abby shrugs, and enjoys the possibility to have a go at field agent. "I guess, but what's really important is who his enemies were."

"Because that would be who really murdered him..."

"...and so probably who framed Ziva. Wow, Gibbs. It's like a melting of the minds. I could swear that's happened before? I mean, not that we get a chance. Normally you just sort of stare while I talk, all thoughtful and pensive..."

Gibbs is staring now, she realises.

"Any ideas on _how_ we can find the guy who murdered him, then?"

"I'm running a search on Michael Rivkin and his associates, but the big fish would be his Mossad file."

"Yeah, get it." He starts towards the door, but is grabbed back to look at the screen.

"Hold up now, Fearless Leader. It's not that simple. The Mossad McGees have installed some pretty hardcore security. I can't just ask for it."

"Hack in." She gives him a patronising stare. "I don't know. Use code or something."

Abby sighs at his lack of computer skills.

"Like I said, it's not that simple, Gibbs. There's ciphers, heavy-duty encryption, about a billion passwords, the whole tequila. Imagine a door with like, a million different huge bolts across it. We can't just use normal keys."

"Break the hinges."

888

"Gibbs," McGee jumps up from his seat and grabs the clicker. "Abby managed to crack Mossad's encryption and she sent me the file on Michael Rivkin and his associates. Just got a hit."

He clicks and 3 different drivers' licences pop up. Each has an almost identical photo of a hard-looking Latino man of about fifty, but each has a different name.

"Miguel Tadros, Tulio Algamez and Alanzo Ponce. All Aliases of Hernan Cresandez, a well-known Chilean criminal boss with ties to terrorist groups in Europe and the Middle East. Born in 1950, he was arrested for assault on a taxi driver in 1979 but no sentence was given, and he has been questioned about theft, money laundering, and 2 counts of murder – both were organized indirect hits on members of his organization who ratted on him."

The clicker clicks again and blurry surveillance photos of 2 men pop up. "Jorge and Stefano Martinez. Both had been questioned about their dealings with Cresandez, and both gave information in return for a relocation programme; however Cresandez's men caught up with them. They were both recently found with multiple gunshot wounds in their homes in Santiago."

"So?"

McGee slaps himself in his mind for forgetting Gibbs' anti-babble rule.

"What I'm saying is, if Michael Rivkin gave information incriminating Cresandez when he joined Mossad, then some of Cresandez's mob could have caught up with him and, y'know...taken him out."

"Yeah? Got anything that proves Officer David innocent?"

McGee looks stumped for a moment before scurrying back to his desk.

"Uhh...I guess I could...try and get the Mossad case file on Rivkin's murder?"

"You do that." Gibbs walks over to McGee's desk and leans toward the younger agent, placing cup of what Tim can only assume is pure caffeine in front of him. "You look tired. Refill."

He takes a swig as his boss walks away, and the coffee just about manages to prise his eyes open enough for him to see his computer screen.

888

Having spent the best part of the day attempting to read copies of Michael Rivkin's case files sent over from Abby, and regretting his previous display of Hebrew that, as Ziva put it, enabled him to "actually help", the chance to use internet in English is welcome.

"Creepy old guy next door turned his internet on yet?"

"No, but earlier I was talking to his wife about his work. He should be arriving home at approximately 2000 hours. Apparently he spends most of his time at home on the computer, so he should switch it on as soon as he gets home."

He grins. "Not much quality time with the Mrs., then?"

"No, she gets left alone when he's there and when he's not." She tries to keep her eyes focused on the kitchen counter while he paces. "She hates being so distant from him, but apparently he does not notice the hints that she throws."

"Drops. Maybe he _does _understand and he just...hasn't acted out yet."

"They are married, Tony. Life partners, soulmates. They both know it, they both don't know how to say it." She secretly wishes she knew how to say it.

She wishes she knew how to tell him how jealous she feels when he's flirting with anyone else. She wishes she knew how to tell him the heartbreak she went through all that time when he was with Jeanne. She wishes she knew how to tell him that she loves him.

_Bing. _"We have internet."

Meanwhile he strolls round the kitchen counter, sparks rushing up through his spine when he brushes against her. He wonders if they were ever going to talk about last night. Maybe she didn't notice the hint he had dropped.

"Oh."

It's not an _I've just realised something _oh, it's an _Oh shit, I'm coming close to being dead _oh.

"What?" He scans the montage of fake drivers' licences for someone he knows.

"Hernan Cresandez. I was...my partner and I were investigating him during my recent time at Mossad."

"Looks bad."

The all-famous "you think?" look glares back at him.

"It _is _bad, Di-Nozzo. Hernan Cresandez is a well-known crime syndicate leader whom Mossad was investigating. Michael Rivkin – my old partner – gave us information on him, because he used to be under his control. He was a very valuable asset."

He quickly walks away when he finds his hands drifting towards her hips, and walks into the bedroom. He may have to shout, but at least he doesn't have to try to resist the temptation to pull her into his arms and kiss her.

"It's textbook. Guy works with crime boss, decides he could make more out of grassing up on him, joins federal agency and tells them everything." The bed is dangerously comfortable after a tiring day and her voice coming from the other room is the only thing that stops him from falling asleep.

"Then tell me _this, _DiNozzo. How does that account for him being dead?"

"Bad guys find out he squealed, kill him and blame it on the one person who sees him most often."

"His partner."

"You."

Something makes him sit up straight – he hadn't thought of it before.

"Hold on. Surely Mossad has some protection detail sort of thing. They would have known that the bad guys would have been likely to seek revenge, so why didn't your Mickey boy get anyone looking after him?"

He hears feet padding towards the door and notices her brown eyes in the doorway.

"Two things. Firstly, he had to be discreet in his application to Mossad. He couldn't state clearly that he had been involved with a big criminal syndicate otherwise they would not have hired him, so they obviously did not get a full vision of the lengths these people would go to in order to get revenge."

Try as she might to catch his attention, Tony hears none of this, because his mind is preoccupied with the fact that she has just pulled her hair out of its ponytail and it is now swirling around her shoulders in perfect just-washed curls.

"Tony?"

"Wh...huh?"

"You are staring again." Ziva smirks, enjoying the moment, as she sits on the end of the bed, looking at his feet.

"Oh...um, sorry. Second point?"

"Mossad is not NCIS, Tony. Agents are not treasured as much. Agents are replaceable. Mossad does not take as much time and effort to care for its agents and officers as NCIS does." _As I know of, _she thinks, remembering a bomb in a briefcase.

He reads her mind. "And you know this how?"

"Something happened when I was at Mossad. I don't want to talk about it."

"No, tell me. You never want to talk about it, but I'm your partner. We're supposed to cover each other, we're supposed to look out for each other. I, I care about you. I want to know what happened."

"Really? We are supposed to look out for each other? That is not the attitude you had when you were on your undercover mission for Jenny." It's two low blows combined, and while the inner tired romantic guy in him wants to just make up and out, he doesn't like letting her win.

"That was different. I told you what happened eventually, not like now where you've kept it hidden from everyone since you got back. What happened?"

She resigns with a sigh, and touches the vague scar on her forehead to remind her. "A covert undercover mission in Morocco. I was...operating without knowledge that there was a bomb set to go off, and it went off."

He sits back up again, and notices she has her hand on the scar. Gently pulling her hand away, he looks deep into her eyes as he puts his own hand up to feel the scar.

"Ziva, I'm...I'm sorry."

* * *

**Hope you liked! Please review :)**

**Lotts xx**


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